Last Rites
by Isabeau of Greenlea
Summary: The night before the battle at the Black Gate, questions are asked and answered about Boromir's death.
1. Chapter 1

March 24, 3019

_Many are the rituals Men use to warn Death away the night before a battle,_ Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth reflected, as he paced the outer perimeter of the camp. There were eerie voices echoing through the night outside of the camp; some beastlike, others that might have been men once or in part. The noises unnerved the soldiers who were trying to sleep within the ring of encircling watch-fires, and dampened any enthusiasm for drink or games of chance that others were indulging in. The air was still and chill. Laughter and song fell flat and joyless in such an atmosphere. Half-obscured by the fog and fume, the crescent moon shone with a sickly pallor, but no stars could be seen. The land upon which the Army of the West camped this night had been occupied by evil for so long that an aura of corruption seemed to exude from every grain of gritty soil.

That corruption pressed upon Imrahil's senses. He wondered idly what he would see here if he tried to actively use his gift of foresight, but was not much inclined to succumb to the temptation. His dreams of late had been troubled and confused, half doom-laden, half hopeful. He suspected that the Army of the West stood upon a cusp of events and that fate could fall evenly either way. And his visions were seldom specific enough to be useful in any event. He was of more worth to the king as an advisor than a prophet. As he walked, he lifted his head from time to time, wishing in vain for a clean breeze from the West to blow the murk away. There was an acrid taint to the air that parched the mouth.

Mail and helm had been left back at his tent, for he was weary of the weight. He knew all too well about the scolding that awaited him when his sworn brother discovered his carelessness. And perhaps he was tempting fate, though whatever it was that circled the camp seemed more inclined to howl than attack, and _Swansong_ was in its accustomed place at his side.

A White Horse banner hung limp and lifeless upon a tall pole in the center of the Rohirrim encampment. Peering through the spaces between the tents, Imrahil could see a great many Riders clustered about the large central campfire. Éomer was enthroned there in his heavy carven chair, and a song was being sung. A lament for fallen warriors, it went better in this place than most songs might. Drink was being passed from hand to hand, and for a moment he thought about joining the Rohirrim for a bit. _Éomer would welcome me._ He got on surprisingly well with the young king of Rohan; perhaps because they were very different personalities.

_No. Éomer might indeed welcome me, but I would still be an intruder. This night is for them._

So instead, he made his way past the Rohirrim, to where the sable and silver of Gondor graced the men sitting about the campfires. He was not their rightful liege lord, but as the last unwounded kinsman of the late Steward the authority was his for a time to command them, and they had followed where he and Aragorn had led without complaint.

His own habit the night before a battle was to see to his men, and so he spent some time moving from fire to fire, speaking to the soldiers, sharing a drink or a jest, assuring himself that they were as well-fed and comfortable as they could be here on the Enemy's doorstep, humbled all over again by their courage. Any who would have quailed at this journey had already left the army, tasked by Aragorn with the re-taking of Cair Andros. The men who remained had weathered the retreat from Osgiliath, the siege, the battle on the Pelennor, and now walked open-eyed into a trap, hoping that their sacrifice would insure the survival of their loved ones.

Imrahil saved his Swan Knights for last-the men he'd grown up and trained with, the younger men he'd helped train himself. Little speech was required among such comrades-in-arms; some fond reminiscences and good wishes sufficed, and the rest of the time was spent in silent companionship, staring into the fire. Eventually, he forced himself to return to his tent, that he might at least try to find a little rest. There, he found Elphir busily writing at his traveling desk; and Andrahar sharpening his blades. The rasp of that whetstone had been Imrahil's accompaniment upon many a night before battle, and he found the noise comforting rather than annoying.

"Who are you writing to?" he asked his son as he entered. "Mariel?"

"No. Alphros," came Elphir's response, as he scribed intently without lifting his head. A chill ran through the Prince. Andrahar's whetstone stopped, and silence fell. After a moment, Elphir looked up. "I shall tear it up tomorrow evening." His voice was calm, and after a moment both his father and honorary uncle nodded. Andrahar resumed his sharpening.

An esquire, his face pale and weary, peeked into the tent. "My lord prince, I have some hot water for you, if you wish to wash. Not enough for a bath, but enough to sponge the dirt away." Clean water was a valued commodity in this place, and to use even such a small amount for bathing, even if one were a prince, was perhaps an indulgence. But Imrahil was a fastidious man, and grateful for the opportunity.

"Thank you. Have you enough that you could bring some for Prince Elphir and the Commander as well?"

"We have already had ours, Imrahil," Andrahar interjected. "We are fresh as the proverbial flowers-as is your _armor_, since you left it _here_ and your esquire took advantage of the opportunity to clean it. I am sure that having brightly polished armor to wear into your grave would have been a consolation, had something out there had arms to shoot with as well as a mouth to screech with!" His irritation was palpable, and a far cry from his usual pre-battle calm.

"Peace, Andra," the Prince responded. "All is well, at least for now. I suspect the Enemy cannot be troubled with us tonight. Not when we intend to march so conveniently into his grasp tomorrow." A couple of murmured commands were made to the esquire, one of them being that the young man should try to get some sleep, then Imrahil was stepping behind the screen that had been set up around the washstand, and stripping his soiled clothing off. Goosebumps rose upon his flesh as the chilly air touched his skin. Hot water and towels were quickly delivered, and also, to his amusement, a bar of Andrahar's famous and long-coveted soap.

"Aha! So I finally get to use some of this?"

"Well, it is a special occasion," came the grudging reply, before the whetstone took up its task again.

_The last night of our lives, in all likelihood,_ the Prince thought, as he began to wash. I suppose it is special enough, at that. Looking down at his body, he found it fit, and not uncomely for a man of his years, and suddenly had to fight back the surge of sickening awareness that came upon even the most experienced soldiers from time to time, of what swords and axes, spears and arrows could do to that body in the course of battle. He had no desire to end a corpse upon a charnel pile, or a troll's main course for supper. As he washed, he tried to suppress the queasy feeling, and by the time he was done through force of long habit had pretty much succeeded. After the cat-bath, Imrahil decided to get dressed once more, both for warmth and to expedite matters in the morning. As he came back out into the main part of the tent Elphir was folding and sealing his letter, and Andrahar, having finished his sword, was now working upon his knives.

The Armsmaster looked up as he came out and paused once more in his work, frowning slightly. After a moment, he laid aside knife and whetstone, got up and came over to Imrahil, staring at his shirt.

"Of all the white shirts you've inflicted upon me over the years, I remember this one particularly well. I thought you had put it away for safe-keeping."

"I had. I took it out of storage to bring with me when we rode to Minas Tirith."

Elphir rose as well and came over to examine the garment. His eyebrows flew up in surprise.

"I remember Mother making that for you! It took her the better part of a winter to do it, those swans gave her so much trouble." The shirt was a linen arming shirt, of a weight appropriate for a garment that would get hard use, but the cuffs and collar opening were bound in a finer linen that was embroidered with an exquisite border design of pairs of swans with their necks entwined together.

"Indeed they did," Imrahil said with a reminiscent smile. "T'was as close as I ever saw her come to cursing. But the result is beautiful, is it not?"

"She told me once it was the only way she could make war beautiful," Nimrien's son said softly. The prince looked lovingly at his firstborn, the son everyone said resembled him the most. But Imrahil could see very clearly traces of his late wife about the eyes and corners of the mouth, and in the unruly, slightly curly hair, not quite so dark as his own.

"Indeed it is. As beautiful as were the other things she made for me…and with me." He gathered his son into his arms suddenly and clasped him close. "I apologize, Elphir, for bringing you with me into this. I should have sent you home to Dol Amroth."

The Heir to Dol Amroth shook his head against his father's shoulder. "I would not have gone. It is my place to be here, with you."

"But if things are to end, it would have been better for you to be with Mariel and Alphros."

Elphir gave him a hard squeeze, then released him. "_Everyone_ here has left loved ones behind, Father. You would have shamed me had you granted me special favor because of my position. By oath, you were bound to bring all of your Swan Knights to Minas Tirith, and I am a Swan Knight. I had to come. And once here, the need was too great for me to return. Besides, your children would not have left you alone in this-we all decided that among ourselves long ago. You had need of the soldier, not the sailor or the scholar, so it fell to me to accompany you. Mariel understands, as do my brothers and sister."

Resigned humor twinkled in the Prince's eyes. "Was I to have no say in the matter at all then?"

"No. No more than about whether Uncle Andra would be with you or not." There came a snort from the Armsmaster, and Imrahil shook his head ruefully.

"Well, if I have no choice, then I can see that we'd both better look after each other tomorrow. For if we were to fall, and 'Chiron had to come ashore to become the Prince, he would never forgive either of us."

"Indeed not!" Elphir laughed, and his father was glad to hear the genuine mirth in his voice. Andrahar reached out and lifted Imrahil's wrist, examining the cuff on the shirt once more.

"My mother used to do such fine work. The last shirt she made me was not unlike this one, save that it was a dress shirt, and there were little tigers rather than swans. So-you would have your lady with you on the morrow, at least in spirit?"

"I would."

"Perhaps she will bring you good fortune." There was an odd tone to his voice that Imrahil would have said was almost forlorn, if he could ever have imagined Andrahar being forlorn. And his usual boundless energy seemed quenched tonight. A tendril of fear curled around the Prince's heart. _I have seen men who believed they were going to die in battle. They looked much as Andra does tonight. Has **he **had some sort of premonition?_

The Armsmaster released the Prince's hand suddenly and turned away towards the stand upon which his armor was racked, to check it over once more. Imrahil's eyes followed him, concerned.

"You have no such token to bear with you, do you, Andra?" he asked softly, in sudden realization.

"I have his last letter, the one that Faramir gave me," came the somewhat brusque reply. "I will bear that with me for luck. But otherwise, no-there were no gifts exchanged between us. It would have been unwise. Any token I gave him might have been questioned by his father, and while I was not subject to the same concern, I would not accept gifts where I could not give them in return. And I was not a woman to be wooed with presents in any event."

"You _will_ see him again one day, Uncle," Elphir said, responding to the pain in Andrahar's voice. "Not any time soon, hopefully. But one day you will."

The Armsmaster's hands paused in their work of running over his hauberk to check links, and he turned to face his former pupil, eyebrow cocked.

"Whatever makes you think that, Elphir? I am Haradrim, or had you forgotten?"

Elphir had always been a very self-possessed young man from a very early age. His position as his father's heir had demanded it. But the sudden harshness in Andrahar's tone took him aback, and he actually stammered as he replied, "Well…actually…yes, I had. I do not think of you as anything other than 'Uncle' most of the time."

Andrahar's manner softened a bit. "Thank you for that, lad. But it does not change the fact that in the end, you are Gondorrim and I am Haradrim. Your people have their own fates that befall them after death, and mine do as well. And they are not the same. Your sea-mad folk believe that a ship takes your dead to some unknown destination. Mine believe our ancestors dwell with the Sacred Fire in the highest vault of the heavens. And that if our deeds are worthy, upon our deaths we will be accepted there as well."

"I have studied the beliefs of your people, for I have had much to do with them in both espionage and diplomacy," the Heir to Dol Amroth said quietly. "I have heard of that belief, of course. And I remember what you did when you killed your half-brother on the Pelennor. Were you not sending him to his ancestors then?"

"Yes. A favor that would not have been extended to me, I think, had our situations been reversed."

"Is that something that we would need to do for you, should you be mortally wounded?"

Elphir looked slightly queasy at the idea of ramming a dagger into his beloved foster-uncle's heart, but Andrahar shook his head.

"T'would serve no purpose, Elphir. My ancestors would not accept me in any event."

"Why say you that?"

"Because I was never accepted by my kin, and most particularly because of the kin and countrymen that I have slain. How many do you suppose I sent to the halls of their ancestors during the battle on the Pelennor alone? The greater powers have no use for traitors. When I die, my spirit will wail formless in the outer darkness for eternity, along with all the other cursed souls. A good reason to stay alive for as long as possible, don't you think?" Andrahar's voice was calm again and matter-of-fact, but his eyes were dark as they could be. The Heir, seeing this, frowned and Imrahil watched, silent and troubled.

"Such a fate hardly seems just to me!" Elphir protested. "You are the most honorable man I know, Uncle Andra! How could you deserve such a destiny? And since your kin have abandoned you-nay, have actively sought to _slay_ you-why should you hold to the beliefs of your people? Or feel that powers that abandoned you have a right to judge you still?" His first-born son, Imrahil reflected, was nowhere near as far-ranging or as dedicated a scholar as his third son Amrothos. But in the matter of people and their motivations, Elphir was every bit as curious and keen an observer as 'Rothos. And these were questions he had never had the opportunity to ask his sworn uncle before.

Andrahar shrugged. "The habits of childhood are hard to break, and your Valar have always been rather inconsistent and incomprehensible to me. Besides, I have had proof that the Valar will not answer my pleas, and that I belong to the Fire."

"What sort of proof?" Elphir pressed. The Prince felt some curiosity about the answer himself, for they were traveling into unknown territory even for him. Andrahar confided more to him than to any other person alive; yet still there were things his blood brother chose not to reveal.

The Haradrim sighed, left off his armor inspection, and moved to where chairs surrounded the small table whereon they had eaten their supper. It had long since been cleared, but a decanter of brandy and some goblets stood upon it. He poured himself a glass and sank wearily into a chair. The Dol Amroth men followed him, and did likewise.

"You know what happened when your uncle Denethor discovered that Boromir and I had been lovers," he said, after taking a slow and appreciative sip of the brandy. Elphir nodded, for he had been apprised by his father of the conditions that had been laid upon both the Prince and upon Boromir-including the soon discarded clause about Elphir coming to Minas Tirith as a hostage. "I was forbidden from ever meeting with Boromir in private again, but when he was leaving the City, he came upon my company doing drills on the Pelennor, and we were able to say good-bye to each other. Esteven was there, but he was discreet."

Another nod from the young prince. Andrahar looked up at Imrahil then, almost reluctantly, it seemed, and the Prince gave him an encouraging smile.

"I was wroth and sorrowful, and in my anger and sorrow, I did something very unwise. I invoked the powers of your Valar to protect my beloved, and I called the Sacred Fire down upon Lord Denethor. "'Twas blasphemous that I do so: one does not invoke such powers if one does not believe in them, for they will turn upon the unfaithful."

"Thus, not only did the Valar _not_ protect Boromir, he was slain in circumstances that might have been less than honorable. As for the Fire-it answered my prayer but it is a power heedless of the small wishes of men, and once unleashed, consumes as it pleases. Thus Denethor was destroyed, but Faramir, whom I love, was also nearly burned." His look across at Imrahil then contained something the Prince had never seen before-shame.

"I should not have done what I did, and I compounded my fault by not telling you of what I had done, Imrahil. But I will not go into the battle on the morrow with this between us."

Elphir, who had been answered in much greater depth than he had bargained for, took an unwary gulp of brandy, barely managing to keep from choking. His beseeching look to his father mirrored many Imrahil had received over the years, from people who had had cause to have dealings with Andrahar. _He is **your** sworn man. **You** are the only one who can manage him._

The Prince drank deeply of his own brandy, then took a moment longer to study the ruby depths before he raised his head to meet Andrahar's gaze.

"Andra, you _cannot _blame yourself for Denethor's death or for Faramir's near-murder! I can see how it might seem to you that you were responsible. But bear in mind that Denethor had been influenced for a very long time by the _palantir_, and the visions that the Enemy caused him to see through it. And that it was he who chose to use it in the first place. He had the lawful right to do so, but it was not the wisest course of action. Had he been more willing to rely upon the council of others, and had less faith in the absolute correctness of his own judgement, he might never have come to such a pass."

"But if it were truly Denethor's choice, Imri, then why the _burning_? An excruciatingly painful way to die. Why settle upon that for himself and his son? Why do what _my _people do to their dead when they cannot give them to the desert?"

"Perhaps it was Sauron's influence. He has always been overmuch fond of fire. But in any event, I refuse to believe that you cursed Denethor to death. Or Boromir, for that matter." Imrahil shifted his glass from the right hand to the left, then reached out across the space between them to take Andrahar's hand in his own, twining his fingers into his friend's darker ones, hands palm to palm. Palms that were scarred from an oath made decades before.

"And as for you being cursed yourself for what you have done to your people, you must remember that you are of _my_ people now. You are Andrahar of Dol Amroth, and you have kept your oaths and your faith. You will not wander in the outer darkness, I feel sure of it. You will be with me when the time comes, and we will find Boromir together."

Andrahar bowed his head and squeezed Imrahil's hand tightly. "It would be good if it were so," he murmured, "though we will not know the truth of it until we are both dead, and I am in no hurry to prove you wrong. But know this-even if I do have to wander cursed by my ancestors, I would count it a small cost for what I have known with you and your family." At this very rare admission Elphir arose, and setting aside his glass, came behind Andrahar's chair and leaned over to embrace him. The Armsmaster, who was not a tactile person and seldom permitted such liberties, made no objection whatsoever, which gave Imrahil an indication of how truly despondent he was.

_I have used him ill these last couple of weeks, he realized, suddenly ashamed. He was there for me, lending me strength, while Nimrien was dying and for a long time afterwards. But I did not return the favor when his time came to lose the one he dearly loved. We learned of Boromir's death upon our arrival in Minas Tirith, and Andrahar went directly into the siege and the battle afterwards with no time to grieve-other than that brief moment with Faramir before he rode out to Osgiliath. Admittedly, events were pressing hard and fast, and there was little time for the luxury of grief. And he would not have allowed himself the indulgence. But I could have made him stop and talk about it after the battles, given him the opportunity to let out some of what has been troubling him. I should have done so. It was my duty to succor him as he had succored me. Instead, I leaned upon his strength as I have always done._

He watched the Armsmaster tip his head wearily back against Elphir's shoulder, eyes closed, and wondered if Andrahar were imagining Elphir to be Boromir. Hair and height were similar, though Denethor's first-born had been a broader, heavier man. His son was whispering something that Imrahil could not hear, and after a moment Andrahar nodded, and reached up to pat the arm that encircled his shoulders. It was one of the few awkward movements the Prince had ever seen him make.

"Thank you, Elphir," he said, his voice rough with fatigue. "'Tis kind of you to speak so."

"I would that I could do something to ease your heart, Uncle. It pains me to see you so despairing."

"I am not _despairing_, lad," came the quick denial. It did not ring entirely true to Imrahil. Andrahar opened his eyes and sighed. "Though I will own that I wish I knew how Boromir met his end. The King has kept his own counsel upon the matter, and I fear that he may have good reason for doing so. Nonetheless, I would prefer to know what befell Boromir, for good or ill, than to imagine what happened. But I think that we will never have the opportunity to find out now-the time to question the Lord Aragorn has passed."

The Prince of Dol Amroth set his drink down and got to his feet. _In all the years I have known him, in all his decades of faithful service, Andrahar has requested something for himself fewer times than the fingers upon one hand. _He strode to the hook on the center pole where hung his blue cloak and swung it around his shoulders. Son and sworn brother looked up in surprise.

"Imrahil, where are you going?"

"Father?"

"I will return shortly. Bide here until I do. I promise that I will not leave the inner encampment, Andra, so you need not fear for me." He swept out of the tent, ignoring the Swan Knight sentries who snapped to attention as he did so, and started towards the large pavilion which bore the Tree and Stars of Gondor.


	2. Chapter 2

The future king of Gondor leaned back in his chair, his feet in their well-worn Ranger boots stretched out before him, enjoying a last pipe before retiring. Gandalf was keeping him company in this pastime, the combined smoke from their pipes having driven Legolas and Aragorn's foster brothers outside under the awning. There the three elves were sharing a bottle of wine, seemingly unaffected by the chill. The wizard's posture was more dignified than Aragorn's-he sat in his chair in the proper manner. And his smoke rings were much better. His did not vanishand were chasing each other about the center pole of the tent, close to the roof. They were also glowing in different colors.

Aragorn looked up, bemused at the obvious evidence of wizardry, then glanced across at the being who had known him all his life and with whom he had shared so many adventures.

"You should try to get some rest, my lord king," came the wizard's deep voice.

"I am not sure that I could," Aragorn admitted. "Tomorrow is the end of all my striving, one way or the other."

"I will be with you tomorrow, to whatever end. You know that."

A tired nod. "I do indeed." A wry smile. "And the knowledge is a comfort, if not quite a sleeping potion or a cup of warm milk."

There was a sound of voices out in front of the tent, and Gandalf frowned.

"Go seek your rest. I will deal with whoever this is."

But Aragorn, listening, shook his head. "'Tis Imrahil. He would not disturb me without good cause."

And indeed, the Prince of Dol Amroth entered into the tent after a short exchange with the elves outside. He nodded to the wizard, glanced up at the smoke rings, eyes widening slightly, then turned his attention to Aragorn.

"My liege, I was wondering if I could have speech with you this evening."

"Has something happened since the council earlier, Imrahil?" Aragorn thought the Prince looked distraught about something.

"No, my lord."

"Then why have you come to me at this late hour and in such a state?"

"There is something I would discuss with you, my lord."

"Then by all means, sit down." He sat up, gesturing towards an empty chair. Imrahil stayed where he was, his posture stiff.

"I would prefer, sire, that the conversation take place in my tent. And without Mithrandir in attendance. No offence to you, my lord wizard."

"None taken," Gandalf murmured around the stem of his pipe. But his dark eyes glinted with curiosity beneath his bushy eyebrows.

"My lord prince, Gandalf has been a part of all our councils," Aragorn said. "What is it that you have to say that may not be said before him?"

"It is something that does not concern him, but only you and my house. And if you require further persuasion, Aragorn who was once Thorongil, I have but one word for you-Hurrhabi."

Which reminder of past debts owed proved that Imrahil did indeed consider the matter serious, and would not be moved from his desire to deprive his liege of what little opportunity for sleep remained this night. Aragorn needed Imrahil as he needed no other man in the realm, to shore up what many in Gondor would consider was a faint claim to the throne. He had been both surprised and grateful that the closest kinsman to the current Steward, Gondor's premier nobleman, had chosen to submit to him in fealty upon his arrival in Gondor. The Prince of Dol Amroth's unquestioning support had quieted many who might have questioned Aragorn's right to take command.

And it was not the first time that he had aided Aragorn. During the raid on Umbar, at the docks of Hurrhabi, when, discovering that Thorongil and some of his men had been cut off and unable to return to the ships, Imrahil had recklessly broken from the rest of the fleet and sailed his _Olwen_ back into the burning harbor. Aragorn, locked in a combat to the death with the Captain of the Havens, a man who took the damage done to his country's pride and power quite personally and fully intended to make the upstart Gondorian captain pay for it with his blood, had expected to die himself. Surrounded, pressed by a superb swordsman, outnumbered by quickly recovering and enraged Haradrim, he had been cursing his own cleverness and measuring his life in moments when he had heard the clarion call of his deliverance:

"_Amroth for Gondor! Amroth to Thorongil!"_

The Prince was a man whom Aragorn respected, and one whose respect the future King of Gondor wanted very much to keep.

So-"I am entirely at your service, Imrahil." He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protest of weary muscles. "A good night to you, Gandalf."

"And to you, my lord," the wizard replied quietly. Throwing his Lorien cloak about his shoulders, Aragorn preceded Imrahil out of the tent, then waited for him to catch up.

"What has happened to cause you such distress, Imrahil?" he asked as the Prince drew even with him. "Things were well enough between us earlier this evening. And I am not unaware that my path could have been much thornier had you not thrown your support behind me upon my arrival at Minas Tirith. You have my heart-felt gratitude, did you not already know it. You need not have reminded me of Hurrhabi to obtain private speech with me. 'Tis too small a recompense for my life."

Imrahil smiled a bit shamefacedly. "It may be the _only_ recompense I ever receive if things go badly for us tomorrow. But I do apologize for throwing Hurrhabi in your face, Aragorn. You truly do not owe me anything. I have not forgotten that you healed me when I was ill so long ago."

Aragorn shook his head. "That was not the same thing at all. I did not imperil myself healing you. You were well out of danger before you came back into that harbor for me. I consider myself in your debt, even if you do not." Imrahil inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Now, will you not tell me what it is that troubles you so?"

"I and some others of my house would know the truth of a matter, my lord, and this looks to be our only opportunity to learn it."

"The truth of what matter?" Aragorn asked.

"I would prefer to wait until we are safely within my tent, my liege," Imrahil replied. Aragorn looked at him searchingly for a moment, then nodded and said no more. There was no point in pressing the matter when it would be revealed in such a short while anyway. They crossed the short distance to the Prince's tent in silence. Upon their arrival, Imrahil held the tent flap open for the King, and commanded one of the Swan Knights on guard to see that refreshments were brought.

Aragorn looked about at the handsome, cleverly hinged folding camp furniture with the swans carved upon it, the beautiful carpets, the crystal lanterns, the wine, the food and the hangings to keep the cold out and smiled despite himself. _The Prince is a man who has always enjoyed his comforts. In that, he has not changed._

"My tent may be larger, but yours is definitely more comfortable!"

"War is unpleasant enough as it is without having to suffer avoidable discomfort in the field," Imrahil said quietly. "But anything I have is at your disposal, my lord."

"I fear that in the past it has all too often been both unpleasant and uncomfortable for me. But no, I lack for nothing, Imrahil." Hopefully, that would suffice to forestall a massive moving of household goods from the Prince's camp into his. The man was generous to a fault. "Good evening Prince Elphir, Captain Andrahar." The Heir and the Commander had risen to their feet at their sovereign's entrance, and stood giving Imrahil surprised looks. But that surprise was quickly followed by a dawning comprehension on two faces that told Aragorn they had some idea of what was going on. Which was more than he had.

"Please, my lords, be seated," he urged them, but they did so only after he had chosen a chair and sat in it. Imrahil was the last to seat himself. "Now, Imrahil, what was this matter concerning myself and your house that you wanted settled?"

"'Tis not just myself, my lord. All of us here wish to know exactly how Boromir died."

Aragorn looked around at the three men The Prince, intense and focused his son Elphir, warily curious; and Captain Andrahar, whose opinion upon the matter about to be discussed could not be discerned at all from his expression. _So it has come at last, _he told himself. _This should hardly come as a surprise to you, Aragorn._ _You had been wondering, and dreading, when Imrahil would wish to speak to you of this._

He had not approached Imrahil himself about the matter, though arguably he should have. But he had found himself with much to do in the aftermath of the battle on the Pelennor. Sleep had been scarce and more precious than jewels in the last week. _And_ _Denethor was dead, and Faramir too wounded when we left to bear the news. But the day of reckoning had to come. The Prince is Boromir's uncle, and was close to both of Finduilas' sons. And this is Boromir's cousin sitting here, and a man who undoubtedly watched him grow up, perhaps helped tutor him in arms._

Delay could hardly harm the dead, he had told himself, turning instead to the defense of the living. But had he dealt with this issue earlier as he had ought to have done, he would not have found himself in the position he was in tonight, having to confront and convey difficult memories when he was almost too exhausted to think straight.

_This is not the time I would wish to speak of such a troubling thing, and yet, perhaps…it is the best time to do it after all._ For he too had his ghosts to lay to rest.

"I owe you an apology, Imrahil," he said after a moment's silence. "I should have spoken to you of this before now, without your having to ask, much less compel me. However busy we were, I should have made the time. After Faramir, you and your family were Boromir's closest kinsmen." Imrahil inclined his head in a gesture that seemed to combine both gracious acknowledgement and pardon.

The tent flap opened then, and one of the Swan Knights entered, bearing a tray with a tea-pot and mugs and a plate with some cheese and some honey cakes. He bowed to Aragorn, then the Prince, and departed. Aragorn helped himself to a mug of tea and a cake and indicated that the others should do likewise. Elphir took both food and drink, and Imrahil the tea. Andrahar kept to his brandy.

After taking a sip of tea, and a bite of cake, Aragorn began. _'Tis best to be forthright in this, I think. _"Boromir was slain at Parth Galen, defending Meriadoc and Peregrin from a mixed company of orcs from Mordor and Uruk-hai from Isengard. He slew many of the orcs, but they had archers with them, and he was alone. I heard his horn, and ran to find him, but was too late."

"How was it that Boromir came to be alone?" the Armsmaster asked. "Where were the rest of the warriors? You and the Elf and the Dwarf?" His tone was faintly accusatory.

"Everyone had scattered to look for Frodo. I was following Frodo's trail when I heard Boromir's horn, but I was over a mile away."

"And how was it that came Frodo to be lost?" Imrahil inquired, his brow creased in puzzlement. Aragorn took another sip of tea before he answered.

"I need to go back a bit, I think. The Fellowship had come down the Anduin to Parth Galen in boats that had been given us by the Elves of Lorien. We had portaged them past Sarn Gebir, but had finally come as far as we could come by water. We camped that night and the next morning I called the Company together and told them that the time had come for us to decide what we would do-to go to Gondor, to venture into Mordor or to part company and each go whatever way seemed best to him."

"But…I thought you had all been charged to accompany the Ringbearer," Elphir said. "How could any of you leave him?"

"The Ringbearer was actually the only one of us upon whom a charge had been laid," Aragorn explained. "To achieve the destruction of the Ring, and not to surrender it to the Dark Lord or any of his minions. The rest of us had been told that we might leave the quest at any time. Also, though Frodo had sworn to take the Ring to Mordor, the manner in which he did so was up to him. Boromir had argued more than once during the journey that it would be better to go to Minas Tirith first, for counsel and supplies and the aid of the Men who had stood against the Shadow the longest."

"And what did _you_ think about that plan?" Andrahar's voice was quiet, but again, that underlying hint of accusation was there.

"I disagreed with Boromir," Aragorn admitted. "It seemed to me a waste of time, and unwise to go there. The fewer folk knew about the Ring, the better. And there was always the chance that, once within the supposed safety of Minas Tirith's walls, our will to go on might fail us. Besides, I had misgivings about bringing the Ring within Denethor's grasp."

The Prince looked then at Andrahar. Something seemed to pass silently between them, and the Armsmaster lowered his eyes. Elphir glanced at the two of them, sighed, then looked over at Aragorn and smiled faintly. Denethor's usurper wondered if the odd, silent exchange was a reprimand or something else entirely. It had not escaped him that Imrahil's relationship with his brother-in-law in recent years had been little better than his ownhad been decades earlier, when he had been Thorongil and Denethor Gondor's Captain-General.

The odd remark here and there, usually swiftly cut off, had also led Aragorn to suspect that perhaps there might have been some recent, more serious trouble between the two. But Imrahil had not been forthcoming, and Aragorn had not felt it was his place to press him upon the matter.

"I had spoken to Frodo a time or two before about what I felt should be done," he continued, "when he had asked for my counsel. The burden of his choice weighing heavily upon him, Frodo asked for an hour alone to make his decision. I granted it to him. But I told him not to go far or out of calling distance. We feared that there might be orcs upon our side of the River already."

Andrahar stiffened in his chair, and sat up a bit. "And knowing that, and how important he was, _you let him out of your sight_?"

Aragorn nodded. "With the provisions I've already mentioned. He said he wished to be alone, and I deemed it the least I could do. His was the heaviest load to bear and any of us, I think, would have done what we could to lessen it."

Imrahil's chief captain made no further comment, but the furrow in his brow and the set of his jaw told Aragorn that he found the decision lacking. Elphir too seemed disappointed. He grimaced a little, then made a point of turning his attention back to his food. Imrahil merely looked thoughtful.

"What _did_ Frodo decide?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"We never found out, at least not from him," Aragorn replied. "He never returned. The rest of us sat and debated that very thing. Boromir had nothing to say upon the matter. It was not until Sam started to ask him a question that we noticed he was gone. This did not please Sam, who had always been a bit suspicious of Boromir."

"There are many possible innocent reasons for leaving such a gathering," the Prince of Dol Amroth said. "Did Sam have any reason to suspect Boromir? And what did he suspect him of?"

"As I said earlier, Boromir had made no secret all along of the fact that he thought the Ring should come to Minas Tirith. He had but a short time before expressed that opinion again rather forcefully. But Frodo was determined to follow Gandalf's plan to destroy the Ring. The fact that Boromir disagreed with his beloved master was enough to make Sam mistrust him."

"But it sounds as if Cousin Boromir was just being himself," Elphir said. "He always knew his own mind, and he could be very determined in trying to persuade others to see things his way."

Aragorn nodded, and took a moment to consume a bite of cake. He looked about at his audience, gauging their reactions thus far. Imrahil seemed a bit troubled, as if he suspected what was coming. As he very well might. Aside from being foresighted, the Prince had good instincts.

Elphir did not seem similarly worried, but he was listening closely to what was being said, and considering it carefully. Though not as blatantly charismatic as his father, during their brief acquaintance Aragorn had found him to be a very clever young man, with a shrewd insight beyond his years and a fund of cool courage.

Andrahar's black eyes were smoldering as he watched Aragorn. _He has certainly questioned me as every bit as fervently as those who were Boromir's kin,_ the future king noted to himself. _And Imrahil has permitted it. Andrahar must have been particularly close to Boromir. __I wonder…**how** close?_ Having known Andrahar in his youth, the former Captain Thorongil was well aware of his preferences.

But such speculation was not advancing his account, so he dropped it for the present.

"I had decided that the hour was long since up and that it was time to call Frodo back, and Sam had just declared (rightly, as events later proved) that Frodo had already decided to go on to Mordor alone, when Boromir reappeared. His face was grim and sorrowful. I asked him where he had been, and if he had seen Frodo. He admitted that he had, that he had had speech with him, and had urged him to go to Minas Tirith instead of Mordor. He said that he had grown angry, and that Frodo had vanished. He would say no more than that, but my suspicions were roused. I wondered then if he had threatened or attacked Frodo."

Aragorn's own expression grew grim for a moment as he relived the surge of protective anger he had felt upon first hearing this and imagining tall, mighty-thewed Boromir threatening Frodo, who was barely half the Captain-General's size. His audience watched him in rapt silence, save for Andrahar.

"'Vanished'? What did he mean by that?" the Armsmaster asked sharply. "Could the hobbit not have simply run off? Why would you assume that Boromir had threatened him?"

"I am sorry. I was unclear. Boromir did not say that Frodo had run away, he said that he had _vanished_, had disappeared on the spot. He had never seen the like before. By that, I knew that Frodo had put the Ring on. For the Ring makes its wearer invisible. Frodo's uncle Bilbo used to use it to avoid unwelcome callers."

"And you feel that Frodo would not have done so had he not felt himself to be in peril?"

"Yes. For while the Ring makes its wearer invisible to us, it puts him into the world of spirit. He becomes visible to the Nazgûl. It would be far easier for them to find him, and for the Dark Lord to sense it as well. Frodo knew this. Only a genuine threat would have caused him to put it on."

Andrahar relented, and the men of Dol Amroth shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as they considered the implications of this. Aragorn took a sip of his rapidly cooling tea.

"Sam was equally suspicious, and it did not help matters when Boromir declared that he had come upon Frodo some time before, maybe as much as an hour before. He had wandered, he claimed for some unknown while. At the news that Frodo had been missing for as much as an hour, a madness seemed to come over the party. I tried to get them to wait, to pair up for safety's sake, but they would not listen, and instead dashed off in all directions. Even Legolas and Gimli did so. Boromir alone remained at my side."

"For all that you were supposedly the leader of the Fellowship, your followers seem to have paid you little heed," the Armsmaster commented. Imrahil bestirred himself.

"Andra, that is enough!" he said somewhat sharply. Undaunted, Andrahar simply cocked an eyebrow at his liege. Aragorn set his cup down and rubbed his temple wearily.

"No, it is all right, Imrahil. The accusation is true enough. Everything I did that day seems ill-done to me even now. I sent Boromir after Merry and Pippin, to guard them as they looked for Frodo. I told him to return to the spot we were in, should they find any trace of Frodo, then set out myself up Amon Hen, to see if I might see anything. Upon the way, I overtook Sam and told him to stay with me." A rueful smile twisted Aragorn's lips. "He paid me as little heed as anyone else. He had figured out where Frodo had gone, and instead of staying with me, dropped back and left me to pursue his master. I found signs that Frodo had ascended the hill and then gone back down, but continued to the top to see if I could see anything useful."

"_Did_ you see anything?" Imrahil asked curiously. "I've often wondered what Amon Hen would be like." Elphir also looked intrigued.

Aragorn shook his head. "Nothing of import. Everything seemed strangely dim, and all I could see was what looked to be one of the great Eagles off to the North. You might have done better, Imrahil, with your gift."

The Prince snorted. "More likely I would have been overwhelmed and ended by rolling down the hill!"

"What happened then?" asked Elphir. "Did you ever find Frodo?"

"No. And it was when I was up there that I heard the sounds of battle, and Boromir's horn. I raced down the hill towards the horn-calls, but as I did so, they grew fainter and then ceased altogether, and the orcs were clamoring as if in victory. But then even the sound of the orcs started fading away. I ran as best as I could reckon towards where they had been, and finally I found Boromir." Aragorn paused for a moment to retrieve his cup, stared into its depths briefly, then looked up again.

"He was about a mile from our camp, sitting against a tree, pierced through with many arrows. Many orcs lay dead about his feet, there had obviously been a mighty battle. His sword was broken close to the hilt and his horn cloven. To my amazement, he still lived, and while he did, he spoke to me."

There was a brief silence. "What did he say?" Elphir asked at last, almost reluctantly it seemed.

"He said **'**I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid.'"

Andrahar leaned forward at that, his black eyes blazing, but at a swift gesture of forbiddance from his lord, he subsided back into his seat without comment. Aragorn, seeing that reaction, took it as more evidence that his earlier speculation was correct. _It may not be Boromir's uncle and cousin and sometime instructor in arms I am dealing with here, but Boromir's uncle and cousin and **lover**_!

Imrahil's expression was that of a man whose worst suspicions had been confirmed, but his voice was steady.

"Did he speak of anything else, Aragorn?"

"He told me that the Halflings lived still and that the Orcs had bound them. And he charged me to go to Minas Tirith and save his people. He said he had failed, and I tried to comfort him, to assure him that I would not let Minas Tirith fall. Then, too late, I thought to ask him if Frodo and Sam had been with him as well. He had already passed. But he was smiling, and I like to believe that he was at peace."

"_At peace _after such a betrayal? How could that be?" The question came harshly, Andrahar's voice almost a carrion-crow's caw. "How could a man who was foresworn, who had supposedly attacked one he had sworn to protect, be at peace?"

Aragorn gave him an understanding look. "It was as he had said himself, Captain. '_I am sorry. I have paid._' He had redeemed himself with the warrior's currency-his own blood. Though he had not been successful in saving Merry and Pippin from the orcs, he had done all that he could do and he knew that. And I think that comforted him in the end."

"Remember what Cousin Faramir had said about his vision of the elven boat, Uncle?" Elphir interjected quickly. "That Boromir had seemed peaceful and more beautiful even than in life? And how he was sure that Boromir had died accomplishing some great thing? I agree with Aragorn about this."

"But we have no way of knowing what really passed between him and Frodo. Only Frodo could tell us, is that not true?" Imrahil asked.

Aragorn nodded. "True indeed. And I hope that he has the opportunity to do so one day." A brief silence fell as the four men contemplated the Ringbearer, and the slender hope that had brought them here to die. Then Aragorn spoke again. "Though I cannot imagine why Boromir would say such a thing if it were not true. He was always honest with us, even in disagreement. Legolas and Gimli found me soon afterwards, and we cleansed and arrayed him as for a funeral and placed him in the elven-boat and gave him to Rauros with the swords of his foes, and sang a dirge for him. And that was the last I saw of Boromir." He sighed, his face somber. "I am sorry that I cannot give you better news of him."

"Any news of him is welcome, my lord. It is better than not knowing." Imrahil's voice was soft, his eyes fixed upon Andrahar again. Aragorn did not think he meant the remark as a rebuke.

"Unfortunately, there is little more I can tell you, unless you wish to know how he fared with us upon the journey. And I would be glad to do that, if you wish. It is more pleasantly told-during the quest, Boromir proved his mettle many times. But I was not present at his final battle, so I can tell you nothing-you would need Merry or Pippin for that. Merry is not here, and I would hope that Pippin is asleep-"

As if on cue, there was a stirring at the entrance to the tent, and some murmured words with the sentries outside. Then a curly head poked in through the flap, but a scant four feet from the ground.

"Strider? Are you in here? I came looking for you at your tent, because I couldn't sleep, and Gandalf said that you with the Prince." There was a distinctly hopeful look on the hobbit's face. "He also said something about honey cakes?"

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Imrahil called for more tea, and a chair was set in their circle for Pippin, who soon found himself ensconced comfortably with drink and as much food as he desired. He sipped his tea and swiftly consumed a honey cake and a piece of cheese, looking curiously around at the others as he did so.

"We have already been introduced, Master Peregrin," the Prince said with his usual courtesy, "but I do not believe that you have met my son and heir, Prince Elphir." The hobbit inclined his head, and swallowed.

"Very pleased to meet you, I am sure, your highness."

Elphir smiled, a smile that fell not far short of his father's charming one. "And I you, Master Peregrin. I have heard much of your exploits. Thank you for helping my cousin."

Pippin blushed. "That was nothing, really."

Imrahil continued the introductions. "And this is the Commander of my Swan Knights, and my Armsmaster, Captain-"

"-Andrahar. Yes, I know," Pippin interjected eagerly. "I know who you are, sir."

Andrahar's heavy eyebrows swept upwards. "You do? And how is that? I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"Boromir told us about you. Merry and me, that is. He described you, so it was easy to tell who you were."

"And how _exactly_ did he describe me, that this task was such a simple one?"

The hobbit, flustered by the Armsmaster's tone, floundered a bit. "Ah, well, he…" he made a gesture towards his curly head with the hand already holding his second honey cake. "He…"

The Prince took mercy upon him. "Speak freely, Master Peregrin. I will see that Andra does not bite!"

The answer came out all in a rush. "He said you had a badger's hair and a badger's disposition to go with it!"

The air of tension and gloom in the tent dissipated for a moment. Imrahil lifted his head and laughed, and his son followed suit. Aragorn chuckled. Andrahar stared at the hobbit for a moment, then snorted, and settled back in his chair with his cup once more. "An accurate enough description, I suppose," he growled.

"Spot-on, I would say," Elphir chortled. The Armsmaster gave him a meaningful look.

"And I'll remember that you said it." Elphir ceased laughing.

"Pippin," Aragorn said in a more serious tone, "we were just speaking of Boromir when you came in. The Prince had asked me to tell him how he died, since Boromir was his kinsman and we have not had the time to discuss this matter before. I have told him all that I know. Would you tell him of Boromir's last battle? You are one of the two people who could do that, and the only one here."

The hobbit grew grave as well. "A high price you ask for your honey cakes, sir," he said to Imrahil.

"I can appreciate how difficult it must be for you, Master Peregrin," the Prince responded softly. "But can you appreciate how difficult it is for us, not knowing the truth?"

Pippin nodded after a moment, no sign of his customary pertness visible. "Very well then, sir. It's just that it hurts to remember, because he was our friend. He was good to us during the journey, and looked after us. And he died protecting us." He took a bite of the honey cake and sat chewing reflectively for a moment before he continued.

"Merry and I met Boromir in Rivendell, and after the Council, while everyone was out looking to see which roads were safest, he gave us lessons in sword-play. He said that everyone in the Fellowship would need to know how to defend themselves."

The hobbit looked around then at all of them a bit shamefaced, and smiled a smile that managed to be both mischievous and regretful at once. The sort of smile he might have used if he'd been caught filching berry tarts off of a windowsill. "I know that you are all great warriors and how important it is to practice, but I am afraid that Merry and I did not take it as seriously as we should have. Boromir was very patient with us anyway. I think we amused him."

He drank some tea and took another bite of cake. "That is when he told us about you, Captain Andrahar, and about his brother Faramir, and his uncle and his cousins."

"He spoke to you of us?" Elphir asked. The hobbit nodded.

"Oh yes! He said he had a cousin who was a soldier and was very good at it, and that was you, my lord. And a cousin who was a sailor and was very good at that, and that was Prince…Er…chirion, I think. And a cousin who was a match-maker, and not so good at that, but not for lack of trying and that was Princess Lothiriel. Am I getting the names right?"

Imrahil nodded, a sad smile on his face. "You are doing very well indeed."

"And there was a last cousin, Prince Amrothos, and Boromir said he wasn't sure if he was good at what he did or not, because no one else in Gondor did the things that Prince Amrothos did. And he said that Amrothos knew how to do fireworks! That surprised us, because Merry and I thought that only wizards knew how to do that! So we told him about Gandalf's fireworks and he said that he thought they sounded as if they were better than Amrothos' were. But I think that if you are not a wizard, and you can do fireworks at all, that's pretty good in and of itself."

Pippin took another pause for refreshment before continuing. "He also mentioned his father once or twice, but didn't talk much about him, except to say how worried he was about being able to keep Gondor unconquered. He seemed to like talking about his brother more. I almost felt as if I'd met Faramir before I ever did, if you take my meaning."

"It proved fortunate indeed for Faramir that you felt such a connection," the Prince commented. The hobbit's rosy cheeks got rosier still.

"Yes sir. Though my friendship was not so lucky for Boromir."

"What do you mean?" asked the Armsmaster.

Pippin grimaced unhappily, and set his cup and plate aside. "I've had a lot of time to think about things, and I'm thinking that if Merry and I had not just leapt up and ran off willy-nilly after Frodo, if we'd done what Strider said, if we had all stayed together, then things might have fallen out differently. If we'd all stayed together, then perhaps Boromir would not have fallen."

"Pippin," Aragorn said softly, his expression sympathetic, "you bear no blame in this matter! In the first place, you and Merry were not the only ones who ran off to look for Frodo. Legolas and Gimli and Sam did as well. And as Captain Andrahar rightly pointed out but a few moments ago, if I could make none of you pay heed to me, then that was my failure as a commander. Besides, as large as that party of orcs was, the odds were good that even had we all been there, we would have been able to do nothing but die with Boromir."

"It is kind of you to say so, Strider," the hobbit said. "But I will still always wonder." The chair was too tall for him, and he was swinging his feet gently back and forth about six inches above the floor. He stared down at their curly tops for a moment before he continued.

"Merry and I ran off in a taking, looking for Frodo and it was not long before trouble found us instead! Orcs, lots of them. Some of them were huge-Uruk-hai out of Isengard, we later discovered. We turned and tried to run back, but they were upon us right away. Then Boromir came, out of nowhere it seemed, and began to fight them." Pippin looked at Andrahar. "You must be a very good teacher, sir-he killed so many of them!"

"I was hardly his only arms instructor, Master Took," the Armsmaster said quietly. "In fact, I had not much to do with his success at all. He had teachers in Minas Tirith. The only times I taught him were when he came to Dol Amroth as a lad."

"Well, you were the only one he spoke of. He never mentioned anyone else by name. But in any event, all of his teachers would have been proud of him then. He was so calm! He kept us behind him as much as he could, and was moving back the way we had come, trying to get us back to Aragorn and the rest. And he blew his horn for help, so that the others could find us, but nobody came." The hobbit paused, his face sorrowful.

"I would have come, Pippin, had I been close enough. I was trying to reach you," Aragorn said softly. He saw Andrahar lean back in his chair a little, his eyebrow flicking up in disbelief.

The hobbit nodded. "I know, Strider. But it was still hard. We felt so alone! And there was nothing we could do to help Boromir. He kept blowing his horn until an orc-sword cut it in half. Then he threw down the pieces, drew his knife and fought with that and his sword. I thought for a bit there that he might actually get us away." Reminiscent hope lightened his face for a moment, then it fell once more. "Then this huge orc, one of their chieftains he must have been, started fighting with him. Boromir's sword shattered in that fight, but he killed the chieftain with his knife. More orcs came up. Some of them were archers."

Pippin ceased speaking then and closed his eyes, hunching miserably in his chair. Aragorn, who was sitting next to him, laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder.

"You need not say anything more, Master Peregrin, if you do not wish to," came Imrahil's voice, soft and soothing. "I thank you for what you have told us, and apologize for causing you to relive such painful memories."

But rather than encouraging Pippin to bow out gracefully from continuing his story, the Prince's words seemed to have a bracing effect. The hobbit's chin lifted once more, and he swallowed hard.

"No, I want to finish telling the story. You should know about it. _Everyone_ should know about it, about how brave he was. It was why I swore my sword to the Lord Denethor, after all."

"When the archers showed up, I could see from the look in Boromir's eyes that he knew that we were doomed. But he kept fighting, and he was smiling, even as the archers drew their bows and aimed at him." Pippin looked over at the Armsmaster then, meeting the black eyes straightly. "'Andra always told me to remember my shield,' he said, 'and now I shall pay for ignoring his advice.'Then he told Merry and me to run back the way we had come and not to look back. He said he would try to hold them off as long as he could."

The hobbit sighed sadly. "We didn't want to leave him, but he shoved us backward and told us again to run. I stumbled to my knees, but Merry dragged me up and started pulling me away. He was weeping, and he said, 'Would you have him die for _nothing_, Pippin? RUN!'" So we did as he commanded, and did not look back, so we did not see the orcs shoot him. But I heard it. There's a noise the arrows make when they hit… someone, do you know? I will never forget that sound."

The warriors seated around Pippin all nodded save for Andrahar, who sat staring into space unseeing, still cradling his cup. Aragorn thought briefly about reaching out to him, but was forestalled by the tiniest shake of the Prince's head. Imrahil's eyes, bright with concern and fastened intently upon his sworn brother's face, gave further credence to Aragorn's earlier suspicion.

_Imrahil wanted to know what had happened to his nephew, 'tis true, but he never pressed me about the matter before now, whether from a reluctance to know the truth or a reluctance to be seeming to cast blame upon me. I do not know what brought him to finally confront me at such a late date, but this is not about him or Elphir at all. This has all been done for Andrahar. And I can only think of one reason why that would be so. He and Boromir must in fact have been lovers._

Pippin took up his tale once more. His face looked almost wizened and old as he finished.

"There is not much more to say. Merry and I tried to run, but there were orcs coming up behind us as well, and though we tried to fight them, they knocked the knives from our hands, and bound us. Boromir saw it happen-he was still alive. There were so many arrows in him, I did not see how it could be so, but he was. He sank down beside the tree he'd put his back to in the fight, and even then he was trying to muster the strength to get back up and come for us, but he could not. The orcs knew that he was finished. They ignored him and carried us off, and... and just _left_ him there."

Pippin bowed his head and a silence fell. It was broken by the sound of Andrahar's cup ringing against the arm of his chair as it fell to the carpet, the dregs of the brandy within it sinking blood-red into the weave. The Armsmaster had tipped it over as he lurched to his feet.

"I am going out for some air," he rasped.

"Andra?" Imrahil queried anxiously, starting to rise from his own chair. An abrupt chop of the hand halted him.

"Nay, Imri! Bide here. I wish to be alone." Snatching his cloak up from the hook, he swung it over his shoulders and left the tent. Those within could hear the shifting of the guards outside, as they came to attention in the presence of their commander.

Aragorn looked about at his companions. Elphir's head was bowed, his expression somber. Imrahil stared after his friend for a moment, then turned his attention to the forlorn hobbit who sat hunched in his chair.

"Thank you, Peregrin," he said, rising and moving to him and touching Pippin's arm gently. The hobbit looked up at him. "I know that was difficult for you, but we do appreciate it. It is good to know what happened at last."

Pippin nodded. "My family would probably want to know what happened to me as well, my lord." His voice became almost plaintive. "May I go now, Strider? I think I will try to sleep again."

"Of course, Pippin. Thank you. I will be following you soon. Good night."

"Good night. Good night, my lords." Elphir murmured his goodnight as the hobbit slipped down from the chair and Imrahil escorted him to the door. Aragorn took up his cup and finished it, regarding the two who remained thoughtfully.

"I have told you what I know of what happened to Boromir. Now there is something I would like to know. Were Boromir and Andrahar shield-mates?" Neither Elphir nor Imrahil answered him immediately. Elphir almost started to speak, then looked at his father and settled silently back into his chair. At last Imrahil replied.

"I do not know how things stand in the North, Aragorn. But you know there are laws against sodomy in the statutes of this kingdom. If they had been lovers, it would be very unwise for Andra to admit it. Because of his origins he is vulnerable, even with my protection." He moved to the table where the drinks were kept and poured himself a brandy.

Aragorn watched him, and thought about what had been said and what had not, both tonight and at other times. Pieces began to fall into place. "They were, weren't they? And they were discovered? By Denethor? What did he do to them?"

Imrahil took a big swallow of his brandy, tossing it down as if it were merely ale. It was the unconscious gesture of a man long familiar with the consumption of large amounts of alchohol, as well as something Aragorn had never seen him do before. "You would have to ask Andra about that. I will not speak of it behind his back."

His liege lord gave him an ironic smile. "Somehow, I do not think that Andrahar would be very forthcoming! But much would be explained if they had been forcibly parted in such a way. The Ring would have found it easier to work had Boromir been in an unsettled state of mind when he came to Imladris."

"I do not know if that suffices to excuse the sort of betrayal Boromir confessed to. And I rather doubt Andrahar thinks it does."

"Then it would appear that we all have our regrets. Like Pippin, I wonder if there was something that I could have done differently, or said, that would have prevented what happened."

Imrahil shook his head sadly. "I cannot give you absolution, Aragorn, if that is what you seek. I do not know enough of what passed between you and Boromir upon the journey to make such a judgment. Perhaps, if we both survive the morrow, at some point in the future you can give a full accounting, and then I will give you my opinion. What I think right now, having heard this evening's account, is that bad choices were made by several people, yourself included."

"Ah, but can you follow a man capable of such poor judgment into battle in the morning? And submit to his rule should we succeed?"

The Prince of Dol Amroth lifted his shoulders in a wry shrug and smiled. "You are my king. That has not changed. I have sworn to you. I am here. And it would be the _height _of poor judgment to call my constancy into question!"

Despite the joke, Imrahil's eyes were grief-shadowed, and Aragorn knew that it was time to go. He took his leave, finding, as he made his way to his rest at last, that he felt both purged and oddly comforted.


	3. Chapter 3

Andrahar walked blindly out of the tent into the night. Oblivious to the Swan Knights' salute, he moved instinctively towards the perimeter of the camp, seeking solitude. Wandering almost at random, he came to rest at last by one of the sentry fires.

Over the years he had lost many friends and comrades to his dangerous trade, but he had never wept for them. His lifetime's tears, he sometimes thought, had been spent the day his mother had been strangled before his eyes for a murder she did not commit and left unburied for the dogs to eat, and in the months immediately following, when he had been subjected to the most heinous degradation and abuse. Grief he was certainly capable of, but not tears. The inability had contributed over the years to the legend that he was a very cold person. Only those closest to him knew otherwise.

He had thought that things might be different for Boromir, when he had first heard the news of his death, but it had proved not to be so. Even now, after hearing of his disgrace and the manner of his passing, Andrahar was unable to weep. Eyes burning dry as the desert that had spawned the greater part of his people, he stared out into the night, his thoughts awhirl.

_Oh my poor lad! For you to come to such a pass!_

To have set forth with such a pure motive, the salvation of Gondor, only to have ended foresworn! That failure ate at Andrahar, whose own sense of honor and obligation was absolute. He found himself looking for reasons to excuse it, that his memory of the man he loved not be sullied. The Dark Lord was also known as the Lord of Gifts among the Haradrim, but even those who served Sauron most directly believed that any gift of his was fraught with peril. How much more so the thing from his very hand, that held a part of his strength? The elf-lords and wizards obviously went in fear of it-how exactly did it overcome its bearers? Did it speak, whisper of the heart's innermost desire? If so, then what had it promised Boromir of Gondor?

Had the Ring promised him a way to save his people? A Gondor free from fear? A Gondor that might, out of gratitude to its savior, overlook certain things? Perhaps a Gondor where he and Andrahar might have been able to be together?

Which then led inevitably to the question of how much blame Andrahar himself bore in this. For had the Armsmaster never become involved with Boromir beyond their first tryst, might he now still be alive? There would have then been nothing for the Steward of Gondor to discover, and Boromir would have had no reason to leave Gondor. Faramir would have taken the errand to Imladris, and who knew but that he might have fared better. Faramir, it was said, had not failed the test when the Ring had fallen into his hands.

_Of course, Faramir had to deal with it for little more than a day or two. If he had had to travel for months with it whispering in his ear down the length of Wilderland, the story might have ended the same way._

_I should never have taken up with Boromir. After that first time, I should have let things drop. He would have found another, or others, to sate his appetites after I started him down that path. Or six years ago, when he asked if I would give myself to him or if I wished to end it. I could have stopped it then. I should have stopped it then, and walked away._

But he remembered how he had felt as if he were almost floating, free of the shadows of his past, waking the morning after in Boromir's arms. That had been an all-too-rare moment of pure contentment, the realization that what was between them did in fact go beyond the needs of the body, that he loved and was loved in return.

_I thought then, and afterwards, up until the very end, that there was naught wrong in what we did. No harm. That we were good for each other._

Then had come Denethor, and the reckoning.

"_I am not a naïve man, Armsmaster. I know that your particular vice is more common, or at least more openly tolerated, in the South. But I deplore it! I think it is depravity, an unnatural thing that is caused by the Enemy's influence…"_

Andrahar did not really believe that, but it would be the cruelest of jests if it were indeed so. That he had been, in effect, Sauron's best-placed deep-cover agent; that between them, he and the Ring had brought about Boromir's ruin.

_Only to clear the way for Aragorn…_

The King Returned, Gondor's new savior, had totally eclipsed the man who had spent over two decades of his life keeping Gondor safe, and it had seemed to Andrahar at times in the last week that he mourned for Boromir alone, though he knew that was not true. The Captain-General had died away from Minas Tirith, and thus there had not been the massive outpouring of grief that had occurred when Faramir had been wounded on the Pelennor in sight of the city. The news of Boromir's fall had coincided with the City's time of greatest peril and that peril, and the lack of a body, had made any sort of memorial impossible. It had also lessened the significance, had made his death seem but another grief among many. And when the battle had ended, there had been the new, rising star in Gondor's firmament. People who had experienced nothing but death and despair were only too happy to focus on a hopeful future and forget the sacrifices of a painful past. It was understandable, but also more than enough reason to resent Aragorn, and Andrahar found himself all too willing to do so.

And what of Aragorn son of Arathorn's account of events? He had forthrightly enough admitted what he felt were his errors in the matter, though it had not escaped Andrahar that Imrahil had had to coerce him into telling them the story in the first place. But then, Andrahar had had to threaten him before he would risk drawing attention to himself by healing Imrahil so long ago. Even then, he suspected, Captain Thorongil had had his eye firmly fixed upon the throne of Gondor. Which was not in itself a cause for condemnation-any person who sought the pinnacle of power had to stay focused to achieve and keep it.

But while Aragorn had made mistakes, so had Boromir. Andrahar had to admit that. Aragorn's culpability in the matter was certainly not such that vengeance was called for. Besides, even had he wished to blame the upstart heir of Elendil from the North, there was nothing to be done about it. Imrahil had knelt joyfully before Aragorn upon the Pelennor Fields, eager to be the first to offer his fealty. There was no doubt in the Prince of Dol Amroth's mind about Aragorn's claim or fitness to rule, and Andrahar would not defy his lord.

Which left him…where? Bereft, his heart aching and hoping against hope that Imrahil had been correct.

"_You will not wander in the outer darkness, I feel sure of it. You will be with me when the time comes, and we will find Boromir together."_

It seemed all too likely that he would discover whether the Prince had spoken truly or not before the next day had ended.

_And then, my lad, if Imri is right, you and I will have a little talk…_

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

_Merry always said I stuck my nose too deep in other folks' business_, Pippin thought, as he searched the area around the Prince's tent to no avail._ And he was right._ He had endeavored to serve Lord Denethor faithfully in order to repay the debt he felt was owed to Boromir. To say that that had hardly worked out in the way he had expected was an understatement! Now, there seemed to be another chance to fulfill that obligation, but Captain Andrahar was nowhere to be found. He had almost given up the search, turning back towards the royal encampment to try to sleep, when he saw someone by one of the outer perimeter fires, looking outward into the darkness. Pippin's approach was the almost silent one of a hobbit not sure of his welcome, but it was discerned nonetheless.

"Master Took," came the Armsmaster's deep voice. The man stared down at him for a moment, and there was clearly annoyance at the disturbance in his glance. Then he seemed to come to some sort of decision, his expression softened and he courteously moved a step to one side to give Pippin a place by the fire. "By all means come and warm yourself."

"Thank you." He moved closer and held his hands out to the flames, stealing a glance up at his companion as he did so.

The captain's face was unreadable now, his eyes as black as the darkness he looked into. But his voice was kind enough as he said, "You should try to get some rest. A rested warrior fights better than a tired one."

"There is not much of the night left, sir. And I am too frightened to sleep." The Armsmaster did not greet this admission with contempt, as Pippin half expected such an experienced warrior might. He merely nodded acknowledgement.

"That does happen sometimes."

"To you?" the hobbit asked, daringly.

Captain Andrahar nodded. "To me, to Imrahil, to your friend Aragorn. To every warrior with any sense, whether they admit it or not. Were we not all still awake when you came to us?"

Pippin absorbed this new knowledge with interest. "Yes. But I thought that warriors didn't feel fear."

The Swan Knight's eyebrow rose. "If a warrior tells you he's not afraid, he's either very stupid, or lying, or both. You simply learn to live with the fear, and fight through it. It is a part of being a warrior."

"Oh. Really?" A slow nod answered him. "Thank you. I feel better now."

"I am glad to have been of service." A silence fell, and was unbroken save for the crackling of flames for a while.

"Captain Andrahar?"

"Yes, Master Took?"

"There was something I didn't tell the others in there. Something about Boromir." The bottomless black gaze turned from the darkness to fasten upon him. The intensity of it was unnerving, so much so that Pippin found himself hurriedly stammering, "Not anything bad, you understand. Just something…I didn't think they needed to know."

"And why was that?"

Pippin did not answer that question directly. "I will tell you and you may judge if it is something _you_ would like to have known." A slight, inquisitive tilt of the head to one side was the only encouragement Andrahar gave the hobbit, but the young Took pressed on nonetheless.

"Merry and Boromir and I talked quite a bit while we were all waiting in Rivendell for the scouts to return. He would tell us stories about Gondor and we would tell him about the Shire. Like I said in the Prince's tent, he told us a little bit about his brother and his father and his uncle's family and you. He actually talked the most about you while we were in Rivendell and he was teaching us to use our swords. He used to jest about how you would have been a much harsher teacher than he was, as well as a better one. He seemed to enjoy speaking of you very much. When we would do something particularly well, he would say that it was something Captain Andrahar would have approved of. But he never mentioned you again once the quest had started and we were with Aragorn. And I wondered about that."

Attentive silence was Pippin's only response.

"There was a day in Rivendell when we had been practicing, and had finished our sword lessons, and were sitting afterwards upon the grass, because it was one of the last sunny, warm days before winter truly set in. And we fell to talking about how folks courted in Gondor and the Shire. Boromir laughed at our tales of stealing kisses from lasses at Brandy Hall and Tuckborough." Here Pippin paused and sighed wistfully as he remembered his home. "We asked Boromir about Gondor and he told us about how your folk give ladies flowers and poetry and sweetmeats when they are courting them, which we do too. So I asked him if he had a lass. Merry told me I was being a busybody."

"What did Boromir say?" came the quiet question.

"He said that his father had commanded him to wed upon his return and would select his wife for him while he was gone. But that he loved another, though the Steward would not permit him to be with his love. And that he would carry that person with him in his heart always even if he could never be with them again."

Pippin paused and looked up at the Man expectantly, but Andrahar made no reaction of any sort, other than to say politely, "By all means, do continue."

The hobbit complied. "Merry thought it horribly tragic and was very sympathetic. He asked if there was no way Boromir could persuade his father to relent. Boromir just shook his head sadly."

"'Perhaps if I could find a way to free Gondor from all peril, so that she might flourish in peace, he would relent and release me. But where would I find the means?' Then he became silent and thoughtful, and soon after that he left us, saying he had other things to do."

The Swan Knight sighed. "I find no comfort in your words, Master Took, merely more proof of the Ring's hold upon Boromir, even earlier than we had thought. Why did you feel that you must tell me this?"

Pippin looked down at his toes, a bit abashed. "Well, because I noticed what Merry did not. And did not believe, even when I pointed it out to him afterwards."

"Which was?"

"That Boromir was careful to never refer to his love as 'she'. Merry thought I was being ridiculous."

The Armsmaster took a moment to digest this. Peering up at him from under his lashes, Pippin watched intently for any sign of shock or offence.

"Do your folk have lovers of men among them, then, that you might think Boromir such a one?" Andrahar asked at last.

The hobbit nodded, reassured by the even tenor of the captain's voice. "We have the odd lad who prefers lads or the lass who takes up with another lass instead of boys. There are a couple of spinsters over by Pincup who took in three orphans. They're as nice a family as you could wish. One of them makes my father's shirts, the other is the best farmer in the area. No one thinks much of it one way or another-not with the rest of us having children by the dozen as we do! I'm not saying that there are those that don't talk. We love gossip almost as much as food, after all! But when all's said and done, we tend to live and let live."

"Your Shire sounds like a very pleasant place, Master Took. Despite the cold winters."

Pippin smiled in reminiscence. "Oh, it is. Truly it is." He peered up at the stern face above him. "How do folk regard such things in Gondor?"

The commander of the Swan Knights did not answer him immediately, instead staring back out into the night again for so long that Pippin thought he was being ignored. At last he spoke very softly. "In Gondor, it is somewhat different. There are ancient laws against such relationships, though they are not enforced as a rule. But when one of the 'lads' is the son of the Steward, things can get very ugly. The Steward's son can be made to swear an oath that he will never meet with his lover again, and that he will wed a woman of his father's choice and sire heirs on her. His lover can be threatened with execution for treason, and his lover's dearest friend forced to pay a huge fine and make other concessions just to keep the man alive. In Gondor, it is not so 'live and let live'."

Appalled, the hobbit stammered, "I …am sorry. I did not know."

"There was no reason that you would. The matter was a private one, and conducted in private, so as to preserve reputations. Apologies are not necessary, though I would prefer it if you did not speak of this to anyone, for Boromir's sake."

"You needn't worry, sir. I shan't speak of it. And you may not think apologies are in order, but I do. Merry was right. I should not poke my nose into other folks' business." The Swan Knight turned his attention back to the hobbit and smiled sadly.

"You saved Lord Faramir's life, Master Took. He is my lord's kinsman and dear to me as well. Because of that, I am willing to indulge a certain amount of curiosity on your part. And you may call upon me for more than that, in recognition of your deed."

Pippin felt his face grow hot, and not from heat of the fire.

"Thank you, Captain. But it was Gandalf and Beregond who really saved Lord Faramir."

"Gandalf only knew about it because you came down into the battle to tell him, at considerable risk to yourself. And you were the one who sent Beregond to the Hallows to buy the time Gandalf needed to get there. The Prince and I were both uneasy about the Steward's state of mind, but there was nothing we could do while we were charged with the defense of the City. Imrahil is not a man who leads from the rear, and I was at his side. We were very much relieved to find that Faramir had had such a stout friend when we heard what had passed after the battle was over. It pleases me to know that you were Boromir's friend as well."

"He _was _your lad, wasn't he?" Pippin couldn't help asking, though he knew the answer already. His voice was little more than a whisper. There was a long moment of silence before the Swan Knight responded.

"Yes. He was my lad." Profound pain and grief were in that gruff admission and the man's hand tightened almost convulsively upon the hilt of his sword. Unaware of the peril associated with such an act, his sympathy kindled, Pippin laid his own hand upon the captain's.

"I am sorry," the hobbit murmured a second time. "I miss him too, you see." The hand upon the sword hilt released it, then turned and twined about his smaller one for a moment, squeezing gently. Pippin sighed. The hand felt like Boromir's-not so large as his had been, but the sword calluses were in the same places.

"I thank you for that, Master Took." The voice was already not so harsh, the man already mastering himself. He let go Pippin's hand. "Your Merry-is he _your_ lad?"

"No. We both like lasses too much. Merry's my cousin, but he's closer to me than any brother. I can tell him anything."

"I have someone like that as well."

"The Prince?"

"Yes."

"That is good."

"Indeed it is. As it is good that your Merry is well out of tomorrow's business."

"I know, but I wish he were here with me nonetheless. Selfish of me, I guess."

"No. Understandable. I am glad that Imrahil is here with me, even if part of me wishes he were safely back at home in Dol Amroth. Though there is truly no safety anywhere now."

"Do you think…do you think we will win tomorrow?" the hobbit asked hesitantly. The captain's eyebrow rose and he gave Pippin another of those sad smiles.

"No. I do not see how we can prevail. I know what numbers were brought to bear against the City during the siege. There will be that many and more tomorrow, and we with little more than half the men we had in Minas Tirith and no walls to protect us." Pippin stared at him, dismayed, and he temporized a bit. "Though Imrahil seems hopeful, and he is a foresighted man. But then, he puts more faith in the schemes of wizards than I do."

The hobbit seemed immediately heartened by the reference to wizards.

"I wouldn't sell Gandalf short, were I you, Captain! I've seen him do some amazing things! Why, he's almost as good as an army all by himself!"

"He has performed impressively so far," Captain Andrahar conceded, "and he is certainly the only one of us who seems to be effective against the Nazgûl. Perhaps you are right to hope, Master Took."

"It just seems the best thing to do. Otherwise I don't know how I would face all of this. Have you no hope, sir?"

The captain hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. "No," he said, his voice strangely serene. "My hope died at Parth Galen. But love and duty will suffice to drive me through the day tomorrow. And I will be most pleased to draw swords with Boromir's pupil. You should really try to rest now, Master Took. I shall be seeking my own bed soon."

Pippin nodded. "I will. Good night, captain."

"Good night, Master Took. And thank you for telling me about Boromir. I was indeed glad to hear what you had to say. Now that he is gone, any word of him is very precious to me."

"I would like to hear _your_ stories about him after tomorrow, Captain Andrahar. I would imagine you have quite a few."

Andrahar inclined his head. "I do indeed. I knew Boromir from the time he was a very small boy. And I can tell you he got up to quite as much trouble as you and your friend Merry ever did! I would be glad to speak of him to you. After tomorrow, then."

It was definitely dismissal. The man nodded courteously to him and turned away towards the night once more. Not knowing if he had made things worse or better, Pippin turned to go only to find the Prince of Dol Amroth standing silently a little way behind him. "Oh! Good night, my lord prince." Bowing, he straightened up and saw Imrahil's kind smile.

"Good night, Master Peregrin. Do try to get some sleep." Pippin nodded and departed.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Imrahil moved to Andrahar's side, worry clutching his heart. That odd, forlorn quality he had noticed earlier still hung about the Armsmaster, the evening's events had not lessened it much.

"Are you well, Andra? I know you said not to follow, but I was worried."

"I am well enough, Imri."

"What did Pippin want?"

"He had some more stories about Boromir to tell me. Little things that had happened before their journey. It was kind of him." He turned his attention fully onto his oath-brother. "_What _in the name of your Valar were that wizard and Aragorn thinking of, bringing him here?"

"Aragorn told me he'd not had the chance to seek renown that Merry had had. And I think that he and Gandalf wanted him here as a witness for his people."

"Stout-hearted though he may be, he is too small in stature for this sort of battle! He would have done better on the walls of Minas Tirith. There at least he could have died with his friend."

"You are so certain then that we're all going to die tomorrow?"

"Do _you_ actually think that this mad scheme of the wizard's will succeed?"

"My dreams of late have been all confusion. Half doom and half hope. But the hope has been there, Andra. I will not renounce it yet."

Andrahar snorted. "Then I shall take the doom and confront it with open eyes."

"What you should try to do is get a little rest."

The Armsmaster made a noncommittal grunt at that. The Prince came forward and took him by the elbow, turned him about and began to steer him back towards the center of the camp. Seeing his oath-brother's arm was still clad in naught but swan-embroidered linen, Andrahar frowned.

Noticing the look, Imrahil became defensive. "We've already been through all that, Andra. Please spare me your wrath. Besides, you are not wearing your armor either, and you were standing right by a fire on the outer edge of the camp."

"I am not the Prince."

"But how do you expect me to learn to behave without your good example?" Andrahar did not rise to the sally and Imrahil's expression sobered. "Truly-are you all right? Have I done good or ill this evening?"

"Good, I think," Andrahar said after walking silently for a few paces. "It hurt to hear it, but I needed to know what had happened. I wish that events had turned out differently, but Boromir redeemed himself in the end, and that is what matters." Another short silence followed, then he spoke again. "I always assumed…I knew that we were both warriors and that it could go either way, but I always assumed, since I was so much the older, that I would go first. And I _would_ that he were still alive, Imri, even if it meant he was wed to another and could never touch me again. I should have liked to have seen his sons." The Prince's arm rose from his elbow to drape about his shoulders comfortingly.

"I should have liked that as well. Perhaps Faramir will bring his sons to Dol Amroth one day, to make sand castles upon the beaches."

"Perhaps. But it will not be quite the same."

The two men arrived back at the tent, and entering the smaller connected tent that served as their bedchamber, wordlessly began preparations for sleep. Imrahil was the swifter for once, and having pulled his boots, slid onto the sizeable cot that served him for a bed in the field. Andrahar turned from dealing with his own boots to find the Prince holding the covers of his bed open.

"Come. You shall not sleep cold tonight if I have anything to say about it."

Surprise quirked Andrahar's heavy eyebrows upward.

"There is no heart in me for love-play, Imri, if that was what you were offering. And it is an odd time to be doing so, after all these years."

"I had thought to offer a body's warmth and a brother's comfort, if you would have it."

The Armsmaster nodded. "_That_ would be welcome. But do you not fear to have the men gossiping about us?"

"Andra, do you not think that they have speculated about that very thing ever since Nimrien died? For _seventeen years_ I have not been with a woman, though the most beautiful and accomplished ladies of Gondor have pursued me relentlessly! The thought is bound to have occurred to them. This may very well be our last night in life, and I wish to spend it with my brother. Besides, I told the sentries to admit no one but Elphir."

That last statement seemed to reassure Andrahar, who came over slowly and slid himself beneath the covers. As soon as he was in the bed, Imrahil pulled the blankets up over them, and drew his oath-brother close. His hand stroked Andrahar's striped hair gently.

"I am sorry that I could not have been what you wished." Andrahar sighed and relaxed, his head upon the pillow close to the Prince's.

"Do you know, I do not think that I am? I would have missed not knowing Elph and 'Chiron and 'Rothos and 'Thiri. Things turned out for the best, I think. And I did have Boromir. Though I wonder if I did him any service by loving him. Had I left him alone, Denethor would have had nothing to discover, and Faramir would have gone to Imladris."

"It is never wrong to love, Andra," Imrahil said quietly. " Boromir was much burdened with responsibility and his father's expectations, and you gave him a reprieve from that. You gave him joy. It is not something you should be ashamed of, nor should you blame yourself for what happened to him. I am sorry if this evening's work has poisoned your memories of him or made you doubt what the two of you shared. That was not my intention."

"I realize that. As I said earlier, I was glad to finally know. And as for my memories…you need not fear. They are unharmed. Though I tend not to remember much about Boromir as a boy any more. I made an effort to bury those memories when we became lovers-I could not be lover and father-figure both, so I preferred to think of him only as a man grown. And I still remember him that way. You, on the other hand…in my heart's eye, you are still that beautiful, arrogant boy who saved me in the marketplace that morning in Umbar."

"Are you saying that I never grew up?" A smile curled the corners of Imrahil's mouth.

"I am saying that you still have that boy somewhere deep inside you, and that it is one of the reasons I love you, for I lost mine long ago."

"Perhaps you will find him again one day."

"I do not think so."

The Prince's hand stilled suddenly from its stroking. "Perhaps you will." Something in the tenor of his voice caught Andrahar's attention.

"Have you seen something, Imri?"

A slow shake of the head. "No, nothing. Just a flash there, for a moment. I don't really see anything at present. As I told you earlier, my dreams are all confusion, and I've not slept well for some time."

"I have noticed that you've been restless in the night." Andrahar moved a little closer. "See that it doesn't happen this evening."

A chuckle; then, despite the warning, an uneasy shift beside the Armsmaster.

"I am sorry, Andra. I should have let you go with Boromir. I could have, and I did not. It never even occurred to me."

Andrahar lifted his head to look his oath-brother in the eye.

"Because your head was wiser than your heart and knew that it was never an option, Imrahil. Can you imagine what Denethor would have done to you had you let me go after his son?"

"There were limits as to what he could have done."

"Not really. You have too many heirs. He could have had you assassinated in his wrath , and possibly Elphir as well, since Elph knew what was going on, and still left Dol Amroth with a solid succession. Blamed it on me and the Haradrim. Then 'Chiron would have had to deal with him, and 'Chiron would have been a fish out of water. Literally."

Imrahil sighed. "The man is dead, Andra. We should not speak ill of him now, particularly this night. I do not think he could have brought himself to do such things."

"And I think he could have. Perhaps not the Denethor of our youth, no. But the Denethor who had been looking into that accursed witch-stone for years? He was another matter entirely, and capable of a great many things, as we discovered to our sorrow." The commander of the Swan Knights lifted his scarred right hand. "In any event, I would not have gone. No oaths bound me to Boromir, for there are no oaths to be taken by two men who are lovers. There was naught between us but love and an understanding. And I was otherwise bound, by both my oath to you as brother, and my oath as a Swan Knight."

"'By our mingled blood, I declare that this man is my brother, to death and beyond'," Imrahil murmured softly, moving his own right hand up to twine with Andrahar's. "Perhaps you are right. But I feel that I have not been a good brother to you in this, Andra."

"In what way? You did far more than _I_ thought was appropriate to keep me alive."

"When we learned of Boromir's death, I did not comfort you as you comforted me when Nimrien died. I just let you soldier on."

Andrahar snorted. "You could hardly have done anything else! We were involved in a _siege_ at the time! There was no time for grief then, and even after the battle was over, we had much to occupy us, with you in command of the City. We have only recently had the time for reflection, upon the journey here. You need not berate yourself, Imri-I do not feel that you have neglected me. And you had as much cause to grieve for Boromir as I did. I know how you loved him. Faramir came first in your heart, but you loved Boromir as well, and he knew it. And he understood why it was you favored Faramir, and agreed that it should be so. He only ever spoke of you to me with the greatest love and respect." The Armsmaster's expression shifted then, became ill at ease.

"While we are discussing shortcomings and wrong decisions, Imri, I owe you an apology for never having told you about Boromir and myself. I know that it came as a shock to you when the Steward confronted you about it."

"I have wondered why you never did." Imrahil's tone was mild, but Andrahar, who knew him better than anyone alive, could hear the hurt hidden beneath.

"It was not that I did not wish to! I value your council more than anything, and there were times when I very much wished to tell you. It was not my intention to deceive. But I needed matters to fall out as they in fact did in the end." At the Prince's quizzical look, he explained further. "I regret that you were surprised, but in the event we were ever discovered, I wanted you to be able to look Denethor in the eye and tell him you knew nothing about us-and be believed. For whatever befell me or Boromir, you would have had to continue to work with him."

"I do not know what I would have done had he slain you, Andra."

"I do. You would have borne what was necessary for Gondor's sake."

"You give me more credit than I deserve."

"I know your quality, my lord."

There was a moment's silence, then Imrahil sighed. "I do miss Boromir, you know. I miss the barracks talk he corrupted my boys with, and the way he used to tease Lothiriel. I miss his bold, cheerful manner. He used to brighten a room simply by walking into it. I miss watching him maneuver so deftly in council while claiming to be nothing but a simple soldier. I even miss the way he would filch a bottle of father's finest and drink it without pouring it into a glass. It used to drive me to distraction and he knew it. I think he used to do it at least in part because he _knew_ it drove me to distraction. He could have the whole cellar for all of me, if he would just come back."

"Imri!" It was almost a protest. Andrahar sucked in a harsh, unsteady breath, and Imrahil, looking into his eyes, saw at last what he'd been expecting and hoping for all evening. He tightened his arms about his nephew's lover and murmured softly in his ear.

"Gondor does not truly realize what she has lost yet, but we know. Weep for Boromir if you wish, Andra, and I shall weep with you. 'Tis a fitting enough way to spend this night."

The Haradrim had a belief that all men's spirits were comprised in greater or lesser degrees of the four elements; earth, air, water and fire. Andrahar, who had not much use for such philosophical conceits as a rule, had nonetheless come to think of himself over the years as the earth and fire in contrast to Imrahil's air and water. And perhaps that was as good a reason as any as to why he had been unable to weep for his lost lover.

And perhaps that was also why, as if they had been merely awaiting Imrahil's bidding, the tears finally came, salt as the sea. Andrahar laid his head upon his first love's shoulder and wept, hard, racking sobs for his last love, while Imrahil's hand stroked his hair soothingly, and Imrahil's voice murmured comfort soft as the muted wash of waves on the shore. Imrahil wept as well after a time, though in more subdued fashion, for a kinsman brought low by love denied and by despair. When the two of them finally drifted into sleep, for what little of the night remained, their rest was as deep and peaceful as any they had had in recent memory.

And when they woke in the morning, to Imrahil at least it seemed as if things had changed, as if the fatalism and despair of the previous evening had been washed away.

_Like the first rain of spring, those tears were,_ he thought to himself as he finished arming, and looked over at his oath-brother. Andrahar, who had taken a bit longer with the washbasin than usual to deal with a rather puffy face, seemed otherwise much more himself this morning. As for Imrahil, he felt oddly hopeful for some reason, though he could not remember if he had dreamed, or what he had dreamed if he had.

"Ready, Andra?" he asked. Peloren was bringing their horses up, for Aragorn wished to parley at the Gate before the battle began.

"Ready, Imri," came the answer, brisk and business-like as ever, as Andrahar took his accustomed place at Imrahil's right hand. They stepped outside, into the subdued bustle of the camp, and were looking southward towards the fanged and frowning Gate when Imrahil felt it. Just the slightest breath upon his right cheek, but weather-wise as sailors were, he knew what it meant, and he smiled.

"Can you feel it, Andra?" the Prince of Dol Amroth asked. "The wind is in the West."

Andrahar's eyes were fixed on something unseen in the middle distance. "West or East, it matters naught to me. The only wind I would care for is the one that bore the sound of his horn coming home."

Imrahil looked at him in startled concern, only to be met suddenly by a familiar wolfish smile.

"I'm all right, Imri, truly I am." He jerked his head towards where Aragorn, Gandalf and Peloren waited with the horses. Éomer was just joining them. "Let's go do this."


End file.
